It was a cool summer morning, with a light mist.

I had no idea I was taking him to his death.

We jumped in the car, lowered the roof and tootled down the road.

I dropped him off in Park Road, and they said ‘Call us around three, we’ll tell you how he’s getting on.’

I didn’t have to. They rang at 12:15. ‘The tumour is too large to intubate him. It’s blocking his throat. There’s nothing we can do. We think he should be put to sleep.’

I gasped. I was aghast. I didn’t know what to say. I put the woman on hold and stood there, an ageing man in the gloom at the bottom of the basement stairs, and called for my wife.

She appeared at the top of the stairs and knew instantly to whom I was talking and what it was about. We both began to cry at the same time.

‘Go ahead,’ I stammered into the phone. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said the stranger’s sympathetic voice.

This morning I went in to pay the bill and collect his wicker cat basket. Inside was just his collar and new brass tag, engraved only last week.

Bodoni’s last photograph, taken on Monday

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